Anne Stuart (9 page)

Not that anything as noble as revenge lay behind Alistair’s little journey into a life of crime. He preferred to think it was caused by nothing more than a combination of financial necessity and boredom.

That, however, precluded robbing innocent, pleasant women of their jewelry. He’d been forced to go to great lengths to return the young Duchess of Denver’s pink pearl necklace. It was far from her most valuable piece, and her older husband could afford to replace it by the gross, but he discovered it had been given to her by her now-deceased mother, and the loss of it had sent the pretty young duchess into absolute despair.

He’d found the return even more challenging than the actual taking, and for a brief while he’d considered returning all the baubles he’d stolen. Practicality had soon taken hold though. Most of the stuff had already been converted into cash and spent. And besides, most of them didn’t deserve to have it returned.

Miss Beauchamp had been a different matter. The gaudy Beauchamp diamonds were well known, and her father, Sir Reginald, had been one of Alistair’s brother’s chief cronies.

Together they’d gone through their various fortunes, with Sir Reginald following James in death at a discreet interval. Alistair had considered the diamonds fair game and only fitting recompense, until he discovered that they were simply all Miss Beauchamp and her mother had left of the once-notable Beauchamp fortune. And she had no idea that the magnificent things were a glass-and-paste substitute.

Alistair’s amusement at having been gulled into stealing worthless baubles had paled when it came to the Beauchamps’ despair. Returning them had been simple enough, done with the help of Nicodemus Bottom’s expert assistance. Replacing the false gems with real ones had proven more difficult, but Alistair had been up to the challenge. And the Beauchamps had never realized their recovered jewels had once been totally worthless.

It was during that incident that Alistair had discovered his alternative form of thievery. The Beauchamps could not afford to entertain, and there was simply no way Alistair could casually find his way to the upper floors of the house, short of seducing Miss Beauchamp. And while that notion was far from repugnant, she was in love with a young lordling who adored her, and Alistair allowed himself enough sentiment to keep from putting a rub in the way of their upcoming nuptials.

Nicodemus and his cohorts had been more than helpful. Close-fitting black clothes, a moonless night, and a certain agility in scaling fences, buildings, and windows were all that it took.

He nearly broke his blasted neck the first time he tried it. By the third time, he achieved the fastness of Miss Beauchamp’s virgin bedroom, tucked the refurbished diamonds into a spot where they’d be likely to be discovered with just the right amount of difficulty, and made his escape, feeling well pleased with himself. Like a black cat, he’d scaled the London rooftops,
the moonless night overhead, and felt cool and free with ties to no one and nothing.

It was by far the way he preferred his reiving. There were times he simply took to the rooftops with no aim in mind. Tonight, however, he knew exactly where he was going. First to the Renfields’ town house. The servants would be abed, the large and graceful rubies would be in Lady Barbara’s jewelry box. If by any chance she’d decided to wear her ornate rubies to the less formal ridotto he knew they were attending, he’d console himself with her diamonds and pearls.

And then he would wander farther afield. To Spitalfields, where he would blend into the shadows. He had no intention of breaching the Maitland stronghold. He merely wanted to observe both Jessamine and whoever else happened to be watching the place. That other shadow still haunted him, and he wasn’t a man who liked unanswered questions.

He didn’t pay much attention to Nicodemus Bottom’s warnings about the infamous Josiah Clegg. Nicodemus had a tendency to worry excessively, and he still couldn’t quite believe that a member of the gentry was proving to be as adept a thief as ever he’d known. Alistair had little doubt he could outwit a dozen Cleggs, just as he outwitted everyone else.

With the possible exception of Jessamine Maitland. It might have been a trick of her strange eyes, but she seemed to see through him with no difficulty at all. He doubted she knew he was the Cat. If, as Nicodemus assured him, she was actually assisting Clegg, then she should have no hesitation in informing on him to her cohort and collecting the prize money. It could make a start in getting them out of that dark hovel in Spitalfields. Yet she’d done no such thing. If the cards had told her he was the Cat, she was keeping it to herself.

He didn’t think it had gone that far yet. She might suspect he wasn’t the lazy, rutting fop he carefully presented to society.

When he looked at her he felt neither lazy nor foppish. The strong desire to rut was a different matter entirely.

He should keep his distance, let her be. Put a temporary halt to his larcenous activities. But he had no intention of doing either of those boring things.

Lady Barbara had sensibly left her rubies behind. They didn’t become her rather florid complexion, and he could only hope she replaced them with something a little more tasteful.

He seldom ventured into the more dangerous parts of the city during his nightly prowls, and the rooftops of Spitalfields were a far cry from those of Mayfair. Tiles were loose, chimney pots were smoking, and the sky seemed somehow darker.

The roof of Miss Maitland’s house was in equally bad shape. It must have leaked in several spots whenever London was blessed with a soaking rain, he thought. The scent of dampness clung to the place, mixing with soot and ancient odors even less pleasant.

He could hear their voices drifting upward, the soft murmur of well-bred British women, and he wondered what they found to talk about. Did she tell them she’d been thoroughly kissed for what had undoubtedly been the first time in her life? Did she tell them about her fortune-telling cards?

The houses in Spitalfields were plain and unadorned, and there was nothing he could use to climb down and peer inside one of the windows, much as he would have sold his soul to do so. But then, he’d lost his soul long ago—it could hardly have been worth bartering over.

He stretched out flat on the rooftop, pressing his face against the broken tiles. He shut his eyes, letting the cool night air press down around him.

And he listened for her voice.

Fleur Maitland loved her sister Jessamine more than anyone else in the world. She loved her sister, and she hated lies. And yet, for some reason she hadn’t told Jess of the man she’d met. The man who teased her impossible dreams.

It had been only a few short weeks earlier, and yet she couldn’t remember what life had been like before she’d seen him. She didn’t even know his full name. Perhaps it was better that way.

It had been a fine autumn afternoon with a warm sun beating down, giving lie to the approaching winter. Fleur sat back and stared at the watercolor she’d just labored over. It was not one of her best efforts, due, no doubt, to the excess haste she’d used in painting it. Her mother had been prostrate, as she was far too often, Jessamine was off somewhere, and Fleur had been unable to resist the clear afternoon light. She’d taken her paints and escaped the house, walking down to the canals to capture the late colors of autumn against the gray backdrop of Spitalfields, but she’d been ever mindful of her circumstances.

She’d had to grow used to being alone. The first fifteen years of her life had been spent cossetted and protected, with scarcely a minute left to her own devices, but since the Disaster, as she’d come to think of it, there’d been no maids, no footmen, not even much of a mother to look out for her. She went to the market stalls alone, she took solitary walks when need be. Surely she would be safe enough in broad daylight?

Someone was watching her. It wasn’t an uncommon experience—she was used to having eyes follow her wherever she went. She found her pleasing appearance to be a mixed blessing. Ever since she could remember, young men had importuned her, old women had doted on her, the world seemed eager to please her for no more reward than her smile. It had always seemed a bit unfair to Fleur, and she tried not to use it, but
that sense of being watched had become a second nature to her.

The colors she’d used were dark and drab, too suggestive of her troubled state of mind. She stared at her picture in dismay, so intent on it that she didn’t realize someone had approached until a shadow crossed the canvas.

“
Very nice, miss,” he said in a voice that was broad and country. She looked up, blinded by the sun for a moment, aware only of immense height. She put up her hand and squinted, knowing she should ignore him, but somehow the broad Yorkshire voice brought her lost home back to her so forcefully that she couldn’t help but turn to him.

He looked safe enough. He was dressed rather untidily in sober clothes, and his light hair was long and in need of a trim. But the untidiness seemed the result of having more important things on his mind rather than actual carelessness. He had a strong face—broad features, clear eyes, an overstrong jaw, and a generous mouth. He looked down at her quite kindly, and for one brief, dangerous moment she wanted to smile back at him.

“
It’s a hopeless daub,” she said uncertainly, taking it from the easel and preparing to rip it up.

He caught it from her hand quite easily. “Don’t do that, lass. It’s far too pretty.”

She’d never been called lass in her entire life. During her childhood no one would have dared, and in the big, filthy city of London, people were more likely to call her “ducks.” There was something about his voice, the gentleness when he said “lass” that warmed her even on a cool autumn day.

And then suddenly she realized what she was doing, having a conversation with a strange man. She glanced around her, but the area around them was empty. She was alone, and he could be a dangerous madman, an abductor of helpless females,
a rake and an unprincipled...

“
Nay, lass, don’t look so frightened. I’m not going to harm you. Do I look like an evildoer?”

“
My sister told me I couldn’t judge people by their looks.”

“
Your sister’s very wise,” he said gently. “Just as you’re wise not to trust a stranger just because he seems harmless enough. But I promise you, you have nothing to fear. I’m one of Sir John’s men.”

Fleur looked up at him blankly. “I don’t understand.”

“
I’m a member of the police. A Bow Street runner. I’m what passes for law around here.”

“
Oh,” Fleur murmured, vastly relieved. “I was afraid—that is, I thought...” She could feel the blush mounting to her cheeks.

“
I won’t harm you, lass. But there are others who aren’t what they should be. You shouldn’t be here alone, so caught up in your painting. You didn’t even realize I’d come up on you.”

“
I do get rather lost in my work,” she said breathlessly. He was so very big, he should have been frightening. But she wasn’t frightened. For the first time since the Disaster, she felt safe.

“
I’ll keep a watch out for you,” he said, “but I can’t always be there. You need to watch out for yourself as well, lass.”

For a moment she didn’t say anything. He was standing very close, and for a moment she felt as if they were alone in this vast, crowded, noisy city. The people and the filth faded away, and it was green all around, and she was home, in a place she’d never known.

“
Miss?” he questioned, staring at her oddly, and the spell was broken.

“
I have to go,” she said, catching up her paints.

She half expected him to stop her, but he made no effort to do so, simply stepping back politely. “Take care, Miss Maitland,” he said in his deep, country voice.

It wasn’t until she reached the safety of her home that she realized he’d known her name. And he still possessed her watercolor of the nearby canals.

She’d seen him again during the next few weeks, mostly from a distance, watching over her as she went about her errands. He wouldn’t come close enough to speak, and the first time she smiled at him from across the crowded square, he pretended not to notice.

But she persisted, to be rewarded with a faint, acknowledging smile in return. And Fleur kept the memory of his smile in her heart, and said not a word to her older sister.

“
What do you do when you go out?” Fleur asked in a deliberately casual voice.

Jessamine looked up from her mending, startled. The light was growing too dim to work by, and the open window, while it let in comparatively fresh night air, also let in a chill draft. “Why would you ask such a question?” she countered, setting the torn sheet down and peering at her sister.

“
Just curious. There’s little enough to occupy my thoughts during the day when you’re gone. Mama stays in her bedroom, bemoaning her fate, and we can’t afford the amount of paints and paper it would require to keep me busy the entire time.”

Jessamine looked stricken. “I’m sorry, pet. Soon we’ll be able to afford all the art supplies you could possibly want, but in the meantime...”

“
In the meantime I could do something as well to help out. You know my watercolors are much admired.”

“
They always have been,” Jess agreed warily.

“
Our friends always said so, but you can’t trust their kindness. They’re hardly likely to tell me I’m a talentless waster of good paint. But the people around here who watch me when
I’m working have assured me I could make a small amount of money if I chose to sell my artwork. Enough to pay for my supplies and a bit left over to go toward the household expenses. There’s no reason you should take on the entire burden of keeping us afloat, and if what I take such pleasure in could bring us some much-needed money then I see no reason why I couldn’t do it. I could set up a stall near Covent Garden and—”